


Frostfall

by klytaemnestra (klytae)



Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [11]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27399319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klytae/pseuds/klytaemnestra
Summary: Rufus muses a little, he knows a villain’s lair, he also knows that this is a trap. They’re all packing heat, dual pistols discreetly hidden beneath his coat, a switchblade in his boot. After all, when it comes to diabolical masterplans, he considers himself a bit of an expert. Perhaps out of practice, but one doesn’t spend nearly a decade plotting one’s father’s demise, funding an eco-terrorist organization, and carrying on a lengthy affair with a professional assassin without picking up a few skills.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915873
Comments: 13
Kudos: 42





	Frostfall

**Author's Note:**

> My deviation from Old Hollywood noir to 1960s spy film. All names are lifted from the Final Fantasy compendium.

They barely make it before the blizzard sets in, the lodge bustling with the promise of the first proper snow of the season. The Eastern Continent is still experiencing the throes of autumn, what few trees that dot along the more scenic areas of Midgar, the perfectly manicured parks, and memorial gardens all still splendid colours of crimson, gold, and burnished orange. But here near the northernmost point, all settle in for what is expected to be a deep freeze. Rufus Shinra shrugs off the dusting of snowfall on his overcoat, still dressed from his travels, Darkstar on her lead, while two porters assist him with his luggage. Tseng stands at his side, dark eyes surveying their surroundings as they cross the warmly lit lobby toward the concierge desk. It’s to be twelve days at the lodge before Rufus is called back for some function in Midgar, and then made to return to Junon. It is a small respite from his confinement, though he is all too aware of why his father allows such outings and holidays. A way to keep up a charade of normalcy, as if he’s not still a prisoner, carefully watched and guarded. There is a certain advantage to having Tseng still seen as a model Turk, a man betrayed by the Vice President, ever willing to play his role as keeper. It makes the truth all the more delectable.

At 250 meters above, they had found any number of ways to pass the 5 day journey by airship. Rufus’ stateroom adjacent to that of his Turk’s, affording them the luxury of convenience. Rufus smiles at the memory of the way he had made a show of things, voice high above the persistent thrum of engines, loud enough to alert anyone who might be wandering along the promenade to what was occurring inside. Let them tell his father what they heard, the old bastard too blind to see this arrangement for what it is. Tseng stands a little too closely, hand lingering against the small of his back as he offers to take Rufus’ coat, the soft private smile of gratitude on Rufus’ lips before he turns back to the concierge asking if it will be for two rooms. ‘No, one. Make it a king.’

For three years they’ve been at this, fucking their way around Gaia, under the guise of Tseng as his father's spy, doing very little in way of discretion. Either his old man doesn’t know, or is of the false impression that Tseng has made Rufus complacent, docile. He laughs a little as he signs the folio, docile, indeed, fucked into being someone amenable and obedient. All this arrangement has given him is a true and trusted co-conspirator.

Rufus drops the pen to the desk with a polite nod, keys in hand and makes his way through the lobby toward the elevators. Their suite is located on the fourth floor within the tower, unparalleled views of the ski slopes and surrounding lakes. It had once served as an observation point in the days before Shinra, prior to the old palace being converted into an upscale resort. It now boasted two expansive balconies, a private heated infinity pool, and the most luxurious bed Rufus thinks he’s seen since leaving his penthouse in Midgar. He tips the porter generously, waits until he hears the sound of footsteps disappearing down the corridor, and then turns to Tseng, hands already fumbling with dark lapels, lips soft and persuasive. He sighs as Tseng’s mouth closes against the curve of his neck, and thinks of how to best make use of that private pool outside moments before the in suite telephone breaks him from his reverie.

He’s met by a wholly unpleasant voice on the other line. Something about a dinner, contacts to be made, an heiress. Orders to be seen, photographed, paraded around the ski lodge. ‘Understood.’ He sighs, drops the phone back into its cradle and gives his lover a baleful look. ‘You’ll never guess who that was.’

‘I don’t need to ask.’ Tseng has heard it all before, far too intimately familiar with the ways the President seems to relish in tormenting his son. Has witnessed it since he was nothing more than a rookie, the fighting, how he would berate and belittle Rufus. Tseng has done what he can to divert that ire, to usher Rufus away from conflict, to protect him. If only it were enough to shield him from moments such as these. From the rug, Darkstar whines.

‘Dear old daddy come to ruin my holiday.’ Typical, truly. Another one of his plots to find someone to arrange some match with. He misses Miss Vlondett, the distraction she provided. The perfect foil to his father’s insistence that he settle down with some powerful, well connected, and ruthless heiress.

‘Perhaps it might be better to tell him your preference lies elsewhere.’ Tseng suggests, already making his way to pour Rufus a glass of brandy, something to settle his nerves.

Rufus takes the proffered glass, and downs the amber liquid. ‘He wouldn’t care. It’s never about my wants, or needs. It’s--’ _Shinra_. Always for the good of Shinra. ‘He does this, every moment of happiness I have, he finds a way to crush it.’ Rufus looks to Tseng then beneath a careless fall of hair, hand still clutching the glass, and considers what will be expected of him, ultimately, one day. ‘Would you forgive me if I had to?’ It seems like the most unthinkable outcome, yet each year his father becomes more adamant, holding it over him as a threat to yield to his duty as the legitimate heir to Shinra, and what he might do for the city and that power.

‘Rufus.’

‘We have to stop him.’ Rufus sighs, reaching out to brush half gloved fingers through the ends of dark strands, accepting that he will not give this up. Whatever exists between them, he _will_ rule Midgar with Tseng at his side.

‘In time.’

‘It’s been years. When will it be time enough to stop waiting?’

‘He will cross a line. He will, we both know that.’ And then.

It seems like a vague fancy now that they are older. Those bold proclamations made, the promise of Midgar. Tseng as his equal, his lover and confidante, sharing power together. Each year that dream slips further away. ‘I half expect him to live forever, out of sheer spite.’

‘I will kill him, I swear. But you must consider what a coup will require.’ A successful one needs more than a toppled despot, there must be loyalty, trust. If he wrests power away without cause, he will never gain the support needed to hold Shinra as his own. There’s a sound in the hall, then. Tseng looks to the door. ‘It’s not safe here.’ He advises, dark eyes glittering with something Rufus reads as concern. ‘We'll discuss this back in Junon. For now I ask that you believe in this.’ Tseng threads their fingers together. ‘ _Us_.’

The knock at the door startles them both, Tseng’s hand already trained on the holster beneath his jacket. Rufus’ pet growling threateningly.

‘Yes?’ Rufus calls out.

‘Sir, forgive the disruption. An invitation was left for you.’ A voice sounds from outside.

Rufus nods once, Tseng moving to open the door, still cautious as he is met with the smiling face of the porter once more, and plucks a small envelope from a white gloved hand.

The invitation smells strongly of expensive perfume, Rufus slides his finger beneath a wax seal bearing what looks to be a familial crest, and reads. ‘It appears we’ve been invited to dinner.’

Outside the storm continues to blanket the Icicle Lodge in fresh snow, rendering all travel and slopes inaccessible this night. The main dining area is filled with well dressed patrons conversing around a roaring fireplace, as a soft stringed music from a quartet fills the air. Rufus is dressed in something decidedly fashionable, sleek white, and deep greys, collar just a little higher this night to hide where Tseng has left tiny love bites along his pulse, and the hollow of his throat. He knows there are photographers here to cover the glamorous and well connected come to ski the slopes, though he thinks of them as nothing more than paparazzi. He finds a spot at the bar and orders a Boulevardier, and whiskey, neat, for Tseng who has eschewed his dark suit this evening for something a little more suited to their locale. Rufus sips his drink, swirling the taste of rye and sweet vermouth on his tongue, and smiles admiringly at his lover. They are surrounded by couples on holiday, both young and old alike. He reaches a hand over to brush his fingers against Tseng’s, and for one fleeting moment considers how easy it might be to kiss him there amid the warm glow, the scent of burnt cinnamon and citrus, wood resin, and soft spice of Tseng’s cologne heady all around him. His smile turns sad then, hand slipping away as he turns back to the bar. 

To his left he spots a tall blonde making her way toward him, slim curves wrapped in fur trimmed ivory. ‘Rufus Shinra.’ There’s a soft lilt to her voice, Mt Nible. She extends a gloved hand, red lips twisting into a coy smile. ‘Thank you for indulging me. I’m Baroness von Muir, but you can call me Maria.’

‘Charmed.’ The polite thing would be to kiss that gloved hand, but Rufus instead studies her with wary eyes, already sensing the way Tseng’s stance has shifted at his side, suddenly Turk once more. There’s the crack of ice in a glass, the room quieting around them. To her back stands a dark figure, the telltale sign of an injury sustained from a knife fight present in a long jagged along his cheek, a patch over one eye. ‘I see you have one too.’ Rufus remarks. He knows a hired gun when he see one, wonders if they’re fucking, as well. The thought is almost too amusing, he takes a sip of his cocktail and offers to buy this Baroness von Muir one for her troubles.

‘Gin martini, please.’ She smiles again, eyes a shade darker than Rufus’ meeting his.

‘And your … companion?’

‘Oh, Klauser. No, I’m afraid he doesn’t drink.’

_Klauser_. Rufus does laugh then. They make a pair, like some duo from an espionage film he might have seen in his youth. If this is his old man’s idea of a joke, then well played. He turns back to offer a toast, and notices how Klauser’s eyes have not left Tseng since they arrived.

Dinner is an extravagant affair, the Baroness ordering up caviar, lobster, and a round of vodka as well as a bottle of their finest champagne. Some frivolous 900,000 gil bottle. It’s all for show, she by her own account old money, so accustomed to this lavish lifestyle that is flowing through her very bloodline, none of this Nouveau Riche of the Shinras, and Rufus cannot determine whether he feels a twinge of envy or pity.

Klauser says little, observing over a glass of white wine, as Maria regales them with a story of her last time she had visited the Icicle region, stranded on top of a slope, cut off by a sudden avalanche. The smile she gives when she enunciates the word does not go unnoticed, and Tseng shoots Rufus a look.

After dinner, while they abscond to the expansive partially enclosed terrace overlooking the snow covered valley, Rufus hesitates, reaching out to halt Maria. ‘Let us dispense with all the formality, Baroness.’ The smile she gives is like a slash of crimson across her jaw. ‘I know my father sent you.’

‘And if he did?’

‘I have no intention of coming to an _arrangement_ , no matter how persistent he might be.’

‘Oh Rufus, darling.’ She begins, and the way she looks at him there in the firelight as if she’s been sent by Ifrit himself is enough to make Rufus take a full step away. She leans in closer, nearly 5 inches taller in those heels looming over him. ‘I know your little secret about Tseng. And a few more.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ She may hold all the cards, but Rufus is ever willing to call her bluff.

She laughs, ‘I’m only having a little fun. I couldn’t care less who warms your bed, but I think I might have something of interest.’ She presses her lips against his ear in mimicry of a kiss, and whispers something that makes Rufus’ posture go tense.

Later that night, as Tseng lights the fire in their shared suite, Rufus pours them both a drink, and considers her words.

‘I presume your suspicions were correct, Sir?’ Tseng asks as he takes the glass from his lover and offers him a somewhat sympathetic smile.

Rufus rattles the ice in his drink in one smooth counterclockwise motion. ‘I don’t know.’ In truth he doesn’t have much to go on except that she seems the type his father would throw at him. Rich, beautiful, _blonde_. Maria von Muir is definitely his father’s type. ‘It’d be like fucking myself.’ Tseng makes a soft sound as if he’s a little surprised that Rufus wouldn’t be into such sordid acts as to take a facsimile of himself to bed. ‘What?’

‘Oh nothing, I was only thinking of two of you.’

‘Were you now?’ Rufus eyes glitter against the flicker of flames.

Tseng takes another sip of his drink, before setting it aside, hands sliding along Rufus’ slim waist.

‘And how would that work, hn?’ Before Tseng has the chance to answer, Rufus’ tongue is in his mouth, hands groping at the front of his trousers, pleased to find him already half hard. They stand together silhouetted by the firelight, hands exploratory, lips alternating between gentleness and fierce need until Rufus finds himself straddling Tseng’s hips, he arches once in a long sinuous line before slowly guiding himself onto Tseng’s cock. A sigh escapes his lips as he feels him settle deep, and he leans down to capture those lips once more before languidly beginning to move, hips rising and falling, each movement meeting a timed thrust. He marvels at the way Tseng looks here in the soft glow, the warmth of the fire adding to their shared heat as they create a soft shelter of intimacy against the raging cold beyond these walls.

Rufus looks up to the falling snow clinging to the frosty glass. It had snowed during that first night in which he had nearly run headlong into a young rookie Turk, and how in that moment neither had known the future they might have together. Tseng’s hands settle at his hips, sliding further along the curve of his ass, as he lays there beneath him, dark hair fanned out against the soft rug, eyes closed as he seems to focus solely on the feel of this. Rufus kisses him again, lips lingering to taste the bitterness of alcohol still there. A particularly hard thrust brushes against his prostate, and he arches back in delight, exhales shakily. ‘More.’ Tseng is all too happy to comply, hips rocking upwards into him at a suddenly brutal pace as the softness between them slips away to carnal need, Rufus slamming himself down onto Tseng’s cock, legs spreading further as if that might give him better access, reaching down to take himself in hand, sliding along the length in rhythmic strokes.

‘Turn over.’ Tseng breathes, already withdrawing to resume his position kneeling behind his lover. He gives a quick slap to Rufus’ ass presented before him, and slides in with a groan. The new angle alone nearly takes the breath out of Rufus, each thrust now gliding against his prostate as his lover fucks him in earnest, each motion of his hips driving him deep, one hand braced against the centre of Rufus’ back, the other reaching down to take his straining cock. He knows he must look at sight, ass high, fingers clawing at the rug as he moans and cries out for more, telling Tseng how good he feels, how he needs him to come inside, the words turning to filth as each thrust makes him nearly come undone. He feels Tseng’s hips jerk, once, twice, and then a flood of warmth as he stills with a sudden breath.

Rufus rocks back onto his softening cock, to eke out whatever last moments he can before flipping over, still achingly hard. ‘My traincase.’ He sighs, feeling the slow trail of cum between his thighs, and stretching out, waits until Tseng returns with his favourite toy. That glass phallus he had fashioned years before to the exact specifications of Tseng’s cock, and when it slides home, Rufus goes taut and begs him to fuck him. It takes seven well timed thrusts in conjunction with Tseng’s mouth dragging kisses along his cock before he cries out his release, and collapses, arms wound tight around Tseng’s shoulders, finding warmth and comfort together.

After a while, Rufus stands, crossing the room to look out across the balcony, the heated pool misty with steam. Overhead, the sky has cleared, and across it dances colours of light, greens, and purples, and hazy pinks. It’s still frigid outside, but they slip into the waters, and arms and legs entwined, take in the sight above.

They awake to snowfall, the previous evening's blizzard giving way to gently falling flakes. Rufus steps out onto the partially enclosed balcony with a tray of pastries and coffee to observe the valley, and snowy mountains, the evergreens, and sparkling icicles along the pitched rooftops as snow falls all around. Tseng presses a soft kiss to his neck before they sit quietly together enjoying the sound of snowflakes. Rufus stares at Tseng from across the table, admiring the way he looks there in the soft grey light, looking out across the horizon unconcerned with duty, or Midgar. Tseng looks up, and taking a sip from his coffee, arches a dark eyebrow.

‘It’s nothing.’ Rufus wants to tell him how very much he loves him, that each moment together in quiet normalcy, he feels as if he’s never loved him more. It’s not the sex, though he longs for it, Tseng’s touch being the only true affection he’s received from another human in years, and wonders if perhaps he feels this too strongly for it, like an abused animal seeking comfort at the only hand that has never beat it.

He settles back, pouring himself another cup of coffee, ‘The Baroness said something to me last night.’ There’s a hesitation there, light eyes glancing down at his hands, red from the morning chill, and laughs despite himself. ‘I’m so used to secrets.’ He starts ever so slightly when Tseng’s hand covers his own. Tseng says his name, not as a Turk, no suspicion in his words, but rather his lover. ‘You remember my brother--’ Rufus' brow creases as he tries to draw an accurate picture of Lazard in his mind. Taller, broader, with long blonde hair the colour of his father’s, and the eyes of a stranger Rufus had never known behind wire rimmed glasses.

‘I do.’ The response is decidedly emotionless. Of course, Tseng remembers his half brother, how could he not? Along with whatever other demons he’s chosen to not tell Rufus about.

‘She wants me to meet her on the slopes this afternoon.’

‘Why?’

‘I think he’s alive.’

The snow has ceased by the time they make it to the top of the slope. Maria is for once alone, Klauser having business elsewhere, but Rufus can only suspect that he’s somewhere nearby, lying in wait for whatever comes of this outing. Rufus hasn’t skied in two years, and considers the possibility that this is all a ploy to lure him out onto the snow, stage some skiing accident. If Lazard Deusericus is still alive, he does not put it beyond his father to have him assassinated, his Turk, as well. His patience with his only legitimate son growing thin. After all, was he not the one to set this all in motion when he so carelessly had failed in staging a coup?

The Baroness is all smiles, once more in ivory and fur, and slightly discordant shade against the soft lavenders and whites of Rufus’ own attire. Tseng as always a dark shadow to his right, hair swept up away from his face, somehow deadlier than usual as he eyes their companion suspiciously.

‘I thought you might bail after last night.’ She teases, poised at the top of a Black Run.

Tseng leans over, voice low. ‘Are you sure you want to do this, Sir?’

Rufus observes his surroundings, the snow still powder all around them, off in the distance he can see the formation of more snow clouds. Another blizzard by the looks of things. If they miscalculate this run, there’s the possibility of white out conditions. ‘I need you to trust me.’ Rufus slides his visor on. ‘Baroness von Muir, I’ll see you back at base.’

‘Don’t get lost, it looks like there’s a blizzard coming.’ She flashes him a smile, and is off a moment later, Rufus in pursuit. She’s skilled, her time spent in Mt Nibel making her an agile skier, and after a few minutes she vanishes from sight, right about the time Rufus realizes that she’s led them off-piste, the terrain turning treacherous, drawing him into a chute. He knows Tseng is close behind, equipped and trained to adapt as necessary, but Rufus finds himself struggling with a certain rage at being duped into this, he dodges a crevasse before he loses his footing, and tumbles downhill into a nearly blinding white.

He opens his eyes to Tseng above him, ski gloves peeled away as he cradles the base of his neck in warm hands. ‘Rufus.’

He laughs, still disoriented from the fall, feels the icy trail of melting snow on his face, and draws in a shuddering breath. ‘We've been played.’

‘That much is apparent, Sir.’ Tseng offers him a hand, lifting him to his feet and righting him on his skis. His hands linger a bit too long on Rufus’ shoulders. ‘Are you alright?’ There is a concern there, fear even, and relief.

‘Yes.’ He counts himself fortunate, the deep glacier beside them could well have been his end. He looks to the clouds above, heavy with snow, and accepts that there is nowhere for them to go but down. It’s a good half hour to the base of the slope, made longer still by the terrain, the condition of the snow. Rufus had grown up skiing, trips to the Icicle area every winter, but he must admit he’s a bit out of practice, and the fall has left his right leg aching, knee stiff. Tseng stays as close as the slope will safely allow, a few meters behind, watching with concerned eyes, and when they make it back down, Rufus unhinges his skis with a curse, tosses his poles into a snow drift, and stalks back toward the lodge. Maria sits at the bar looking entirely too pleased with herself.

‘You made it back in one piece, I see.’ She muses, and calls for two toddys.

‘That wasn’t fair.’ Rufus scowls. Whatever game she is playing, he’s no longer interested in the rules. ‘You mentioned a former Shinra employee last night. A Lazard Deusericus.’

‘I did. You see, Mr Deusericus and I have a bit of a history.’ The smiles, her beauty a mask to disguise the serpent beneath. ‘I know who he was to you. To your father. The errant child of an affair. Couldn’t have that ruining that perfect silver screen dream with your mother, pay off a scandal, pull some strings at work. Nothing like nepotism.’

‘As if you have the authority to judge.’

‘Do you know what we do in the mountains of Nibleheim, Rufus Shinra?’ Her eyes glitter darkly.

Yes, he knows. Of the many things he wishes he did know about the corporation he should one day inherit, he would gladly still give this knowledge up. Those creatures, the research, _Sephiroth_.

‘Your father didn’t send me, but I suspect you’ll wish he did.’ She slides from the bar a moment later, perfume lingering all around him, with the stench of her deceit.

He sits in his room dressed in loungewear, leg propped up icing his knee as the blizzard settles in once more, one hand errantly stroking Darkstar’s angular head as the beast rests beside him. Tseng suggests they take dinner in their room, but he insists on being seen as his father has requested, to show the Baroness that he will not be cowed by someone such as she. ‘What did you think they did with him?’ Rufus asks after a while, hand firmly wrapped around a glass of steaming spiked cider.

‘Your brother is dead, Rufus.’

He looks away. ‘You know as well as I what we’re capable of. If the research fell into the wrong hands--’

Tseng settles before him, hands moving to massage his calf. ‘You’re utterly irreplaceable, if you’re worried about that.’

‘You think my father wouldn’t make him heir, were he somehow thought to be alive?’

Tseng shakes his head a little, ‘Your father chose you for a reason.’

Rufus makes a soft sound of disbelief. The idea that his father might see him as anything more than a failure, the disappointment, the unwanted and uncared for son who reminded him too much of the only woman he might have ever loved. ‘I think if he had a better option, he’d tell you to put a bullet in my head.’

Tseng goes quiet then.

‘Maybe it would be better if you did.’ Rufus turns away, drawing his knees up into the chair, and focusing on the snow outside. ‘I’m nearly 30, Tseng. I promised it to you, and I’ve not made good on that.’ How many more years, he wonders. ‘I ask you do it in my sleep. One quick shot.’

Rufus’ eyes narrow ever so slightly as Tseng moves to straddle him. ‘He may not love you. Not in any way that matters, at least.’ Tseng hand cups his chin, tilting it upwards. ‘I do.’

‘Stop it.’

‘I won’t say it again if you don’t like it.’

‘It’s not that.’ He looks at Tseng there in the fading light. This killer who warms his bed, and wishes to admit so very much.

‘Do you want me to fuck you?’ Rufus dismisses it with a soft toss of his head. ‘Do you want to fuck me?’ He laughs softly at that, and as Tseng leans in to give press a kiss to his lips, Rufus hears, ‘I’d like to fuck you.’

They’ll be late for dinner, he accepts, and leans back, allowing Tseng to strip him of his soft pyjama bottoms, turning just so for Tseng to probe gently at his ass with his tongue, the slick glide of it making him shudder. They fuck there in the shadows, movements gentle, lips caressing in cadence with their hips, soft words forming and dying on their lips as darkness settles around them.

Rufus stares up at the ceiling for a while, when he finally speaks his voice is soft. ‘I’m serious, Tseng. If something happens with this. I trust you to know when to pull the trigger.’

‘Sir.’

They emerge from their room sometime after 8 PM to find a lively cocktail party in full swing. With the snow trapping everyone indoors this night, the guests spill out into the lounge, mingling and dancing to jazz. Rufus scans their surroundings, and turns to Tseng with a look. The Baroness is nowhere to be seen, nor that of her hired gun, presumably whatever fun she’s had on Rufus’ behalf making her less inclined to socialize this night. A woman in a short red shift and knee boots leans in as they pass, she’s seen him in a magazine, asks if he’s some celebrity. He smiles wanly, and continues on. Out of public view long enough that no one outside of Midgar knows who he is any longer.

The bartender knows, offers him a respectful nod, and asks him what it’ll be. ‘Cognac, please.’ It’s been too trying a day for a cocktail. He looks to Tseng. ‘Aren’t you going to join me?’

‘I’d rather keep all my wits until we know her plan.’

‘At least order a soda.’ He calls the barman over once more, asks for seltzer with a twist. ‘Sometimes I feel like the entire world’s gone mad.’ He takes a long drink, and sets the glass down squarely in the centre of his cocktail napkin. In such short time the power his father has found, a stranglehold on the planet, the entire Eastern Continent under Shinra rule, Midgar little older than he. He wonders how quickly they might lose it. He thinks of how each moment is so very fleeting, and turns to Tseng to kiss him, unconcerned with who might see. Let the tabloids gossip and speculate, it is over in an instant, the pressing of lips against the other’s, and then he withdraws, downs the remainder of his drink, and looks out into the throng.

‘Fuck.’

Through the crowd he spots them, Klauser, von Muir flanked by two others. Tseng is already trying to usher him away from the bar, out of the restaurant and back to the safety of the room when they find the side exit blocked by presumably two henchmen of Maria’s. Tseng is armed with only his quicksilver, discretely holstered beneath his blazer. They’re decidedly outnumbered.

‘I’ll handle them. Go back to the room.’

‘No.’ The word is firm, Rufus turning back to the bar. If he is to be the future of Shinra, he must fight his own battles at times. They’re in public, they still hold their own cards, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to force the Baroness to fold. And putting on his most charming smile, crosses the room to greet her. ‘Maria.’ He takes her hand this time, gives it a little kiss like they’re familiar acquaintances. ‘Forgive me for starting without you. We weren’t sure if you’d join us after this afternoon.’

She leans in to give him a peck on the cheek. ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at.’

‘It’ll take more than a couple of thugs and a vague threat, Baroness.’ He pulls away then, light eyes narrowed, chin tilted up just so as if to challenge any of them to make a move.

Maria laughs once, smiles. ‘I think you owe me a drink, Rufus Shinra.’

She mentions Lazard again as she raises her martini in a toast.

‘See, you keep saying his name, Baroness von Muir, but I question this strategy, if you’ll forgive me, of course.’ Rufus sees the way Tseng watches her, waiting, gun loaded, silenced, slotted with nearly mastered materia. ‘I knew Lazard Deusericus. One might say he was a friend once.’

‘Then you should know well enough what he was.’

‘I know that he’s dead. I sealed the files myself. So either you make good on whatever it is you’re trying to threaten the Vice President with, or you take your leave.’

The smiles she gives is a unpleasant thing, red lacquered nails tapping against the stem of her glass. ‘You know nothing tainted by Shinra ever truly dies.’

Rufus lifts a hand to halt the progression of this conversation, gives Tseng a look, and takes a sip of his cognac. ‘I suspect you’re wanting a nominal sum. To either make this all go away, or to show me your hand. I’m disinclined to play this, but I am intrigued.’

‘I don’t want your gil.’ She slides a small thumb drive across the bartop. ‘I do have my demands.’

Rufus reaches out to retrieve it, eyes suspicious. Nothing that has come out of her mouth since they met has been anything more than one long play. ‘I’ll need proof, something more than the words of a stranger who I can say I’ve never heard of before last night.’ 

‘It would be unwise to doubt. I know all your little secrets, Rufus Shinra.’ The terrorist organization, the funding, undo all the carefully constructed lies and half truths, the farce of these extended business trips. How he’s nothing but a puppet prince kept locked away. ‘I could make it all go public in an instant, ruin your chances of succession.’ And if his half sibling is still alive, or some facsimile of him.

‘You’ll find I don’t take well to blackmail or those who cross me.’

Maria sets her drink down, gathers up her things, and extends her hand for Rufus to bid her good night. ‘Do heed those warnings, my dear.’ She offers Tseng a nod. ‘It will be in both your interests.’

Rufus’ gaze lingers on her departing form, that of her entourage, before calling for another drink, and downing it in one swallow. ‘I need some air.’ Outside it is nearly whiteout conditions, but the shelter above provides him the needed space to get away from the crowd, the cacophony, and focus his thoughts.

‘She’s lying, Sir.’ Tseng supplies, hand already moving to rest against the small of his back as if to comfort and reassure. ‘She’s good, very good.’ Could have been a Turk, truly, with those manipulation skills. ‘But she’s a fraud.’

‘I know. She’s connected though. Maybe stole our research, hacked our files.’

‘I think she has contact with one of our own.’

Rufus turns, considering the possibility. ‘You think it’s one of Veld’s?’ When he had staged his failed coup, they had lost a few in the chaos, desertion, or so the official reports had read. At least two presumed dead, a fracturing within of those loyal to Veld, to Shinra, a few slipped away unaccounted for. They might know of his treachery, had access to Shinra files, to Research and Development, all those programs that even Tseng himself has never been made fully privy to.

‘We all had a job we believed was right.’ He pauses as if to consider his position within Shinra, the sins he’s committed in its name, and those he’s committed to protect and serve the man he loves. What happens when that belief is challenged or proven false? ‘We should check to see what’s on that drive.’

The first thing they notice is that the door to their suite has been left ajar. Amateur work, it seems almost insulting. Tseng’s hand is already on his pistol, advising Rufus to stay behind him. The room is empty, though it bears the signs of having recently been searched, pillows just slightly askew, the wardrobe door open, Darkstar found, whining, locked in the bathroom. Tseng sweeps the room for bugs, looks to Rufus and tells him to pour them a glass of champagne as he slides his hand beneath the bed frame, withdraws a small listening device, and drops it into one of the glasses. The both look on as the bubbles fizz around it as it shorts out and dies.

‘I suspect the Baroness was hoping to acquire a bit more extortion material.’

‘What a shame. I might have put on a good show for her.’ He leans in close, lips pressing against the curve of Tseng’s neck. ‘I’ll still put on one for you alone.’

As appealing as that may be, they need to find out exactly what she has on Rufus, on them both. Tseng withdraws his laptop, and boots up the drive. He’s met with a ghastly collage of Shinra’s greatest sins, Nibleheim, Corel, Banora, copies of files he’d sealed away, the fate of Veld, photos of Rufus, bank statements showing the redistribution of funds into foreign accounts, the sale of weapons, intel, reactor codes.

‘Fuck.’ Rufus sounds from behind his shoulder.

Tseng scans through the files in stoicism, ignoring the smiling faces of those SOLDIERs he’d once followed, of Nibelheim, Veld, _Lazard_ , older, hair a little longer, but unmistakably him. When he’s seen enough, he powers down the computer and tosses the thumb drive into the waste bin before hitting it with a localized lightning spell, watching as it melts into nothing but molten silica. ‘She’s not here to blackmail you, she wants to destabilize all of Shinra.’

Tseng sits up late logged into the Turks’ database. There is no Baroness Maria von Muir. No ruling family has resided in the mountains outside Nibleheim in nearly 45 years. But there is a former arms dealer, a Matis Scherwiz, connections to the President some 40 odd years ago who had used his wife’s familial name on unofficial dealings. Before Midgar, when Shinra was still little more than a glorified weapon’s development company. They had specialized in mako infused artillery, aerospace, and most disturbingly, genetics, his research considered radical by even Shinra standards, unethical on a level that had led the President to sever all ties. Scherwiz had died in an explosion shortly after Midgar had been finished, leaving behind an orphaned daughter a few years older than Rufus named Stella. She had presumably taken up the moniker of her mother’s family, and now with the right intel, chose to orchestrate her revenge.

He closes his laptop after a while, crosses the room to where Rufus is curled up in bed, Darkstar at his feet, having drifted off sometime earlier while waiting for Tseng to come to bed. He brushes his fingers through the silk fine hair at Rufus’ temple, thinks of those words his lover had spoken hours before, despondent. He leans down to press a soft kiss there, and considers how if they were Rufus’ orders, if it came to ruin or death, he’d do what is asked of him.

Rufus stirs when he slips beneath the covers at his side, and snuggles closer. His voice is sleepy, perhaps a bit weary. ‘What did you find?’

‘There’s no Maria von Muir.’ The sound Rufus makes suggests he’s not the least surprised. ‘Your father had dealings with a Matis Scherwiz over four decades ago. Maybe he stole from him. Whatever it is, his daughter is using it against you.’ It is Tseng’s duty to ensure that she fails.

Rufus props himself up on one elbow, as if to consider Tseng’s words. ‘Do we know anything else?’

‘Not yet.’ If she does not want gil, the question is what _does_ she want instead. Tseng suspects there will be no scenario in which this goes away without conflict, is prepared for that contingency. The next threat made against Rufus will be the very last. ‘I suspect you’ll get your answer tomorrow.’ Whatever she is playing at, she must know that the longer it goes on, the less of a claim she’ll have.

He is about to say something more when he feels Rufus’ hand sliding beneath the waistband of his pyjamas, breath hitching high in his throat as warm fingers curl around his cock, working along it as he begins to stiffen. The dog knowing it’s time to make a hasty retreat, jumps off the bed to settle near the smouldering embers of the night’s fire. Rufus straddles him, lips sweet against the underside of his chin as he trails kisses lower along his bare chest, tongue sweeping across a hard nipple, teasing at his navel, before freeing his cock and drawing him into his mouth. Rufus had promised to make a show. Tseng lays back, hands finding their way into his lover’s hair, cupping the back of his head in encouragement, and fucks up into that pliant wet heat until he’s moaning and shuddering out his release.

Rufus runs a finger along the corner of his mouth, and settles his cheek against Tseng’s thundering heart. ‘Thought we’d have a quiet holiday together.’

Tseng is dressed by the time Rufus wakes, seated at the desk, laptop open, as he cleans his pistol. ‘Anything new?’ Rufus asks from the bed, raking a hand through sleep mussed blonde. There’s coffee at his bedside, still warm, a few pastries. It’s hardly the more romantic start they experienced the prior morning. Rufus idly picks at a croissant, handing a few pieces to Darkstar who sits patiently for each buttery morsel.

‘You really shouldn’t spoil her so.’ Tseng suggests, clicking the slide back into place.

‘You’re just jealous.’ Rufus replies, giving her a pat on the head before moving to stand behind Tseng to peer over at his laptop screen. A photo of the woman he knows as Baroness von Muir, with little information alongside it. As if her true identity has been all but erased.

‘I spoke to Reno earlier. Had him pull some old paper files. It seems Scherwiz had ties to R&D.’

‘You think they cloned _him_.’ It’s not a question. Rufus knows enough of what happens down in the Drum, what happened at Nibelheim, even if all that information is kept locked away from him. Hojo insists that it is needed research to find the fabled mako rich Promised Land. But all Rufus can ever remember are the screams that would echo up along the air ducts late at night when he was a child, the glimpses of creatures, some unmistakably human. Rufus plucks a nearly mastered time materia from the desk, and studies it. ‘Poor bastard.’

Tseng reslots his materia, cure, lightning. ‘I think they want you to believe they have, Sir. Whatever Maria’s running, or Miss Scherwiz, whichever it is, she thinks this is her winning hand.’ A way to manipulate, to instill fear and complacency, if only she had not been so foolish as to choose Rufus Shinra as her target.

Rufus gives a toss of his head, and drops the time materia into Tseng’s waiting hand. ‘We call her bluff. I want to see him.’

They arrange to meet that afternoon, a helicopter to take them up the mountain, near the North Crater. Rufus muses a little, he knows a villain’s lair, he also knows that this is a trap. They’re all packing heat, dual pistols discreetly hidden beneath his coat, a switchblade in his boot. Afterall, when it comes to diabolical masterplans, he considers himself a bit of an expert. Perhaps out of practice, but one doesn’t spend nearly a decade plotting one’s father’s demise, funding an eco-terrorist organization, and carrying on a lengthy affair with a professional assassin without picking up a few skills. He observes the snowy landscape below as the ski slopes and lifts slip away behind them. Set up against the peak of a mountain rests what looks like a chalet. The helicopter lands in a controlled descent, whipping up the snow around them.  
  
There are posted guards with semi automatics patrolling the grounds, and Rufus thinks once more to how they’re walking straight into the behemoth's lair. Klauser is the one to meet them, offers a nod before ushering them toward the chalet. ‘Your weapons, if you please.’ Rufus shoots Tseng a look, and relinquishes his arms, watches as he does the same, two standard issue quicksilvers, a few mythril throwing knives, and something Rufus thinks looks very much like a small grenade.

The inside of the chalet appears no different from any that might be found in the Icicle area, décor rustic, if a bit on the austere side. If they are running a rogue research program here, then it’s likely underground, in tunnels beneath the mountain.

‘Baroness von Muir will be with you. Please make yourselves comfortable.’

There is spiced mulled wine served by a smartly appointed attendant, though both know that they aren’t quite welcome guests. Rufus crosses the room to look out the expansive windows onto the rocky slopes. The only way down from here is by helicopter. He turns to Tseng then.

The sound of stilettos on slate alert them, along with an entirely humourless laugh. ‘I trust you’ve had time to take in the view.’

‘Baroness.’ Rufus sets his untouched wine aside, and regards her with narrowed eyes. ‘Or should I say Miss Scherwiz. I’m a bit confused as to who I’m supposed to be dealing with here.’

‘So your little Shinra lapdog did his research.’ She casts a glance toward Tseng.

‘You will address him with more respect.’ He thinks to the switchblade still tucked away, the prospect of driving it through her heart.

‘Of course. But Maria will do.’ She muses a little, and turns away. ‘If you will, gentlemen.’ The atmosphere in the room shifts as four of her henchmen surround them. ‘I have things that you will find of great interest.’ 

Rufus has met with conspirators, eco-terrorists, and oligarchs. His own father’s lackeys and board all the thing of some classic espionage serial, ruthless, corrupt. He looks at Tseng, gloved finger tips brushing lightly against the cuff of his jacket, and lowers his eyes downward in the subtlest of gestures, alerting him to the concealed blade. Tseng smiles just barely. They are led to an elevator that takes them down several stories, as suspected into a subterranean structure built into the mountain. Impressive, it must have taken years of excavation and blasting. 

‘This place was my father’s vision.’ Maria begins as light floods the facility. ‘Artificial sunlight, I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.’

The sunlamps offering light to those beneath the plate, a near flawless facsimile of true daylight, complete with a sunrise, and sunset, and the shadowy haze of twilight. They had been one of the crucial selling points of Midgar, the unification of the sectors into a grand metropolis, though unfortunately, Shinra had been a bit slim on the details. ‘Your father’s contribution?’ Rufus asks. ‘Is it is all stolen technology?’

‘You are a clever one, Rufus Shinra. Perhaps we’d not be here had your father the foresight to heed your advice.’

Rufus isn’t disinclined to agree. His father is careless, reckless, and utterly corrupted by his need to hold onto absolute power within Shinra. How if Maria had approached this situation differently. ‘I fear the time for us to be allies has since passed.’ He’s not one to pass up an opportunity, but too many lines have been crossed, and he’s learned at least something about choosing those he puts his trust and support behind, casts Tseng a glance. Only he and his Turks, only those few, the ones who have sworn their loyalty to him not because he has demanded it of them, but because he has earned it. ‘Enough with this, you say you have my half brother, I don’t care about your artificial sunlight, or whatever else you’ve taken from my company.’ It is his, will be, and he’ll do whatever it takes to ensure that.

‘I know your Turk did his research, but how little you all know.’

‘Is this your villain speech, because I have one of my own.’

‘Your father’s company isn’t the only one to study genetic research.’ She turns to Klauser, instructing him to open the doors to what Rufus suspects is a research facility. ‘Project Frostfall, he called it. While Shinra funneled funds into research in Nibleheim, we did a bit of our own.’ The room is filled with tanks not dissimilar to the ones found in Hojo’s lab. Rufus envisions his late half brother trapped in one such tank, and feels a type of disgust.

‘It was my father’s obsession. It drove my mother away, into sadness. And he into ruin.’ She waxes on about how her father had been friends with the President of Shinra, and how it had been his right to have a seat at the table along with those such as Heidegger, Scarlet, Palmer. Rufus laughs a little, so another idiot, then. What harm could it have done?

‘You think you’re so smart, and so powerful, and dangerous, Rufus Shinra. With your Turk. But you see, I have one of my own.’

Rufus’ eyes flit over to Klauser, then. The man is unsettling in a way, but suddenly _familiar_. Thinks to his words when they first met. _I see you have one, too._

‘How do you think I found out about your little stunt? That failed coup, the secret that no one in Shinra dare speak.’ She expounds on how it would be ignorant to not notice the truth between him and Tseng, the looks, the way he’s rarely seen in public without his Turk at his side, always a bit too close to be considered entirely professional, how it might go were it to all get out.

‘You’ve shown me photos, files, all my secrets.’ His voice is deadly calm, he thinks to the blade in his boot, to Tseng standing there flanked by her henchmen, and smiles. ‘Lazard Deusericus isn’t here, but I suspect he never was.’

‘And yet, you are.’ Maria walks along the line of tanks, fingers tracing over the convex glass. ‘My father never was given the power he deserved, but I intend to take it.’ She gives some speech of how it is the simple matter of infiltrating Shinra from within. ‘I never needed Lazard, because I have you.’

‘That’s your plan?’ Rufus laughs. ‘No wonder your father failed. Do you have the slightest idea what my Turks are capable of?’

‘Your paid assassins.’

‘They’re loyal.’ Rufus makes his move, reaching for the concealed blade. There’s no way he’ll get a clean throw, but it’s enough to cause a diversion. When it settles only moments later, Maria’s laughter echoing throughout the chamber, Tseng has a purloined quicksilver leveled against Rufus’ temple. ‘You see, Baroness. My Turks are also here to ensure that I never fall into the wrong hands.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘No.’ Tseng’s tone is even, as if this is nothing more than a routine mission. ‘My orders are to protect the VP, his orders.’ Rufus reaches out to take Tseng’s left hand, and hopes to Shiva the Baroness falls for his bluff as he feels a materia slip into his palm. Slow.

When it is over, Rufus will remember only the sound of gunfire, the spell strong enough to take him out for the count. Klauser, or rather the man who had taken up that name, lay dead, along with the Baroness’ henchmen. Tseng takes a moment to pay his respects to the fallen Turk, and turns to Maria. ‘You have two options. One is to take one of those birds, and disappear.’ It’s a risky option for a one driven by revenge, greed. ‘If you ever threaten Shinra again, I will come for you.’ He calls for clean up. Reno and Rude selecting a team to clear the chalet, eradicate any information stored there, destroying all traces of the late Matis Scherwiz, and that of his daughter. Shinra is, afterall, rather skilled at making problems simply vanish.

They return to the lodge in the early evening, Rufus stripping out of his clothes to shower and demanding that Tseng call down for 4 bottles of champagne, a full service of caviar, and 2 dozen oysters. It’s a coping mechanism, as always. Ignoring the afternoon’s unpleasantness, drowning it beneath his favoured vices. Tseng fucks him hard beneath the shower spray, hands braced against the tiles as he drives into the pliant heat of his lover’s ass, hips jerking frantically, both chasing down a needed release, the physical comfort found in one another’s body, and in the aftermath, holds him close and murmurs soft endearments.

The two lay together on the rug, Rufus’ head pillowed against Tseng’s thigh as he stares up at the firelight playing across the ceiling. They’re on their second bottle, choosing to stay in this night, after the past several days. ‘I keep thinking of Lazard.’ Rufus sighs. Those photos, they were doctored, he knows, but a part of him had almost dared to hope. He had never had a brother, but perhaps he might have found an ally.

‘Sometimes the past is best left buried.’ Tseng offers. Rufus finds that he can’t quite disagree with that. ‘You should focus on the future.’

‘Yes.’ The future. Rufus smiles a little, and reaches for his champagne, watching the way the bubbles seem to glitter this night.

It’s late when they step out onto the balcony, the winter chill biting, but for the first time since they have arrived, the air is still. Overhead the sky is alight with colourful bands, and twinkling stars. Rufus looks out across the blue tinged valley. ‘We still have nine days.’

‘Yes.’

‘I suspect my old man expects me to be seen socializing.’ He’ll need to make up for the lost time, though perhaps Maria von Muir will have her usefulness in creating a certain charade of having at least been seen with who appeared to be a very eligible young woman. There’s no sense in letting on that she’d tried to orchestrate some elaborate but terribly flawed plan at infiltrating Shinra, and if a couple photographs of them together happen to slip into some of those glossy, glamorous magazines, what’s the harm if it gets his father off him for a few months.

Rufus moves closer then, knee sliding between his lover’s legs, ‘And what do you expect of me, Tseng of the Turks?’

‘That’s a very dangerous question, Sir.’ Tseng replies, as he leans in to capture Rufus’ mouth in a kiss.

_Fin_


End file.
